


a local habitation and a name

by Periwinkle2016



Series: BT Tower Telephone Group E [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periwinkle2016/pseuds/Periwinkle2016
Summary: Was it his fault the angel took such damnably cute selfies? All Crowley had wanted was to see more selfies of his angel.In which Aziraphale refuses to Snap back, and Crowley refuses to believe in the Snapchat ghost.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BT Tower Telephone Group E [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937872
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	a local habitation and a name

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Adam Young Stands Victorious Over Defeated Ophidian](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633758) by [mehrto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/pseuds/mehrto). 



> Thanks so much to the Do It With Style mods who organized the BT Tower Telephone event and to everyone who participated! An explanation of the game can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26636956). I would highly recommend checking out all of the awesome works in this series and in the other telephone groups. 
> 
> Title is from Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.

_It’s not_ , Anthony J. Crowley thought to the world at large and also himself, _that evil_ always _contains the seed of its own destruction. It’s more that clever angels always thwart even the mildest attempts at it in the most aggravating ways possible_.

Crowley had begun his current scheme four days ago.[1] He had _finally_ persuaded the angel to put the most minimal of efforts into joining the 2020s by buying his first “mobile telephone.” 

Following that unbunglable success, the inimitable Serpent of Eden had promptly proceeded to push himself into a concrete pool full of his own personal Kryptonite. He had insisted that Aziraphale take a selfie.[2]

Which _had_ been fine. Great, in fact! But after that, it all went to a Satanic hospital in a handbasket. And the path to the debacle was paved by Crowley innocently[3] installing Snapchat on Aziraphale’s phone.

Was it his fault the angel took such damnably cute selfies? All Crowley had wanted was to see more selfies of his angel.

With this goal overloading his mind, Crowley had patiently showed Aziraphale how to “operate the Snapping chat application,”[4] deviously _not_ taught him how to angle the front-facing camera, and rushed back to his flat in order to become the very first being to Snap his angel.[5]

Immediately after that, the angelic thwarting began: Aziraphale refused to Snapback.

\--

“Aaaaaannnnngel,” Crowley wrote in his next Snap, “why won’t you Snap me back?”

“I know you’re not actually worried about releasing ghosts.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“The messages don’t actually die once you open them, Aziraphale.”

“They just disappear.”

“They definitely don’t stick around to haunt old bookshops as specters.”

Two hours later, he added, “They aren’t even alive to begin with. They aren’t messenger pigeons.”

\--

Seven hours later, Crowley’s phone buzzed. If it had been anyone else’s mobile, it would have been astonished to suddenly find itself held and unlocked. As it was, it just hoped that its master received pleasing news.[6]

“Stop sending me messages through Snapping immediately,” Aziraphale’s text read because of course he couldn’t just make Crowley’s decade by Snapping back. “I blanch at the idea of that many people gathering in my bookshop. And I didn’t want to leave them to unsuspecting humans, so I’m releasing them in a graveyard. It’s entirely too close to lurking for comfort.”

Crowley immediately opened Snapchat. Another message from Aziraphale flashed across his screen.

“I mean it, Crowley. Please stop.”

Crowley exited Snapchat. A rock had appeared in the pit of his stomach. Clearly, it was time for him to torment some more gastroliths. But first, a nap.

\--

If that had been it, Crowley would have been fine to drop the subject of Snapchat and never speak of it again. After all, he had personally reminded every axolotl in London whom they should fear when things go bump in the night. Everything was _fine_ on his end.

The same, however, could not be said of Aziraphale.

Ever since that first ill-fated Snap, Crowley suddenly couldn’t walk more than a foot in the angel’s shop without being assuaged by the idea that he was no longer welcome.

The angel kept _changing_ things. The bookshop was ~~Crowley’s home~~ Aziraphale’s sanctuary. It wasn’t supposed to _change_.

Even worse, whenever Crowley casually mentioned the changes, Aziraphale briskly blamed them on the “ghost” of Crowley’s Snap.

All of the chess pieces had been hidden in different nooks throughout the bookshop and two of them were still missing?[7] _Oh, well, the ghost_ is _a rather mischievous fellow. It’s part of why he’s such a bother to have around the shop._

Aziraphale’s blanket had been moved to the back of his armchair, and Crowley’s blanket had been shoved into a back corner of the wine cabinet? _Who was Aziraphale to reason out a ghost’s sense of interior design?_

Crowley’s mug had been set on the floor under the couch? Let him take a guess: the ghost must have done it! _Actually, Aziraphale had thought that the ghost might be growing weary of being referred to as the “ghost,” so he had done a bit of research and found the ghost’s name! Mr. Ghostface Chillah, he/him pronouns, if Crowley would be so kind._

It was the realization that the ghost was probably _not_ an extended metaphor for how Aziraphale felt haunted by Crowley’s company that enabled Crowley to launch a full out investigation. He decided to approach the problem like any other time Aziraphale needed a little help speaking frankly: dinner at the Ritz, followed by drinks at the bookshop.

\--

“Come off it, angel,” Crowley drawled, expertly leading the witness. “There’s no way you really believe your shop’s haunted.”

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale pronounced grandly. “I’m afraid what I believe is an entirely different topic of conversation. What I know, however, is that a ghost by the name of Mr. Chillah has taken up residence in my bookshop… and it’s all due to your demonic work.”

“Right, so this is just like that time you were convinced that electric light bulbs were, how did you put it? Oh, an ignis fatuus.”

“Well, you can hardly say that I was wrong. Especially now that the humans have learned how terrible they are for all of the trees and the greenhouses and such.”

“The rain forests, you mean?”

“Yes, that too!” The delighted angel tried to clap his hands, but found himself cleverly thwarted by his half-full glass.[8]

Crowley waved his glass past his nose, instinctively trying to hide as his face was overcome by an unforgivably soppy smile. Over 6000 years together on Earth, and the angel was still finding new ways to make him grin. In that moment, everything was perfect.

The moment was abruptly eviscerated by the shattering of a dropped glass, the angry coiling of a demon, and the appearance of a cat-sized likeness of a doodled ghost.

Ghostface Chillah had arrived.[9]

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said slowly so that there would be no reasonable doubt that the angel had heard every word. “There’s a ghost in your bookshop.”

“Yes, dear boy,” Aziraphale sniffed, “as I am sure I have mentioned to you _several_ times.”

“It’s the bloody Snapchat ghost,” Crowley said steadily, in a voice which only happened to sound significantly higher than his ansaphone greeting. “Bloody thing shouldn’t exist. Not as an actual _ghost_.”

The ghost sprouted a face in order to stick its newly formed tongue out at Crowley.

In a response which was both eloquent and necessary, Crowley promptly stuck his tongue[10] out back.

“So, are you planning on beginning the exorcism rite any time soon?” Crowley asked lazily, eyes never leaving the unblinking stare of the trespassing ~~occult~~ paranormal being. “Should I leave you alone to pray?”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale said quickly, “we can’t do that. I mean, it wouldn’t be fair, punishing Mr. Chillah for your mischief.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale said, and the weight of the pause that followed prompted Crowley to glance over just in time to catch sight of one of his best “pleased bastard” smiles. “He’s an absolute natural at customer service.”

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Crowley’s current scheme had also begun foundering four days ago.
> 
> [2] The selfie in question was a photo of Aziraphale’s eyes and forehead and a bit of Crowley’s hair, and if it was currently set as Crowley’s wallpaper, that was no one’s business but his own.
> 
> [3] As innocently as Crowley ever did anything, other than love his angel and bring him gifts and rescue him from bad guys who, honestly, it was practically a good[3.1] deed to off. 
> 
> [3.1] Not that Crowley would ever be caught admitting it. “Good” was a four-letter word.
> 
> [4] **Four** times, Crowley had demonstrated the steps. He was _almost_ certain that the experience had been one of Aziraphale’s many bizarre methods of flirting.
> 
> [5] There was only one being in the universe who deserved the title of Aziraphale’s best friend, and that being was willing to do 120 mph through London to defend his title.
> 
> [6] Even Crowley’s mobile knew to avoid four-letter words in his presence.
> 
> [7] A black knight and a white rook had taken advantage of the chaos to run away together. They would never return to the battlefield on opposite sides again.
> 
> [8] To Crowley, wine glasses in the bookshop _always_ seemed to be half-full. 
> 
> [9] To be precise, he had shown up fashionably late, as all ghosts tend to do, provided they have any sense of style.
> 
> [10] A tongue which was much longer than that of some silly cartoon ghost. Not that it mattered, _really_ , but some things deserve to be included in the record. Just in case anyone happens to care.


End file.
